


Say You'll Remember Me

by yespolkadot_kitty



Series: Love Letters to James Conrad [1]
Category: Kong: Skull Island (2017)
Genre: F/M, Kong: Skull Island - Freeform, Please be gentle, Reader-Insert, a lot of nonsense really, another tumblr user made me do it, basically a love letter to James Conrad, only my second ever "imagine" fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Three nights you've shared that dingy bar with James Conrad. On the third, you gather up the courage to ask him for what you want.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lokimostly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokimostly/gifts).



> Please miss, @lokimostly made me do it!  
> This is written in homage to her absolutely STUNNING two James Conrad/Reader fics, Rainy Days and Home from War. Definitely read them. Her James is spot-on and completely swoon worthy, and her depictions of war are heart-stopping (as are the love scenes).

It was the third night in a row that you and the stranger had shared the dive bar, but the first time he’d had company.

You’d sat back in surprise, entranced, when he’d beat the hell out of the two local guys looking to fleece him. He’d used no more than a pool cue and hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Following the fight, he spoke with the two men - one young, studious looking, one older, heavyset, definitely  _ not _ locals - for a time. You got the sense that money changed hands, and they left. The stranger stayed, staring into his glass. 

You’d worn that thousand-yard stare before; looking but not seeing.

Squirming on the torn leather of your bar stool, you hesitated. Moved. Hesitated again.

_ Screw it. _

You only had one life, and if the events of the past few days had taught you anything, it was that no one regretted things they  _ did _ as much as things they  _ didn’t _ do.

So you’d be brave.

Chucking back the last of the lychee-flavoured liquor you’d ordered, you slid off the stool. 

_ If I’d known earlier that I was going to seduce a stranger tonight, I’d have worn matching underwear, _ you told yourself snarkily.

It was too dark in the bar to see much anyway. Was that your plan? Dirty sex against the wall in the alleyway next to this seedy dive bar?

Hell, no. 

But only because you didn’t have anything complex enough to call “a plan.”

You ordered a measure of whiskey, neat, from the disinterested bartender, examined the glass. It was mostly clean.

Satisfied, you headed over to the table the now lone man occupied. His gaze was on the door, and you took a moment to study his profile in the low lighting by the pool table.

His short, honey-brown hair was unkempt, as if he’d been raking his hands through it. His stark profile was beautiful in the half-darkness, his jaw covered in thick stubble. When you’d first seen him, you’d wondered how that stubble would feel against your thighs.

_ Shit or get off the pot. _

You swallowed your fear and set the glass of whiskey down in front of him, taking the seat that the young, studious guy had vacated.

“Hi.”

His gaze shot to yours, and you saw that his eyes were the most amazing shade of blue, shot through with grey.

You gestured to the glass. 

He cocked a brow. “What do you want?”

The liquid courage you’d downed deserted you at the sound of his voice. It was smooth and cultured, deep, layered with class. A bucket of James Bond with just a splash of naughty. Irresistible.

“I hadn’t actually planned this far,” you admitted. Your voice came out less squeaky than you’d feared. Good.

He settled his elbows on the table and leaned forward a little. The top two buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned, and you caught a glimpse of his chest. Your heart lurched, the sharp edge of desire making itself known in your body.

“And what, may I asked,  _ had _ you planned?”

Was that a flicker of heat in his eyes? Or just a trick of the light? He looked tousled, dirty, with just a lick of darkness. Of danger.

And you liked that. You liked it very much.

“I just want to talk,” you hedged, buying yourself time. Maybe he was too dangerous for you.

The man wrapped long fingers - piano player, you’d bet - around the glass of whiskey. “You bought me a whiskey so we could  _ talk _ ?” he drawled, again raising that eyebrow.

You held that startling blue gaze, hoping you didn’t wuss out and look away first.

The stranger must have seen whatever he was looking for in your eyes, because he held out a hand. “James Conrad.”

You took it. His palm was warm as his fingers enfolded yours, and that fiery little pinch of desire stirred in your belly again. “Y/N.”

Conrad sat back and lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, sipping. “And what, Y/N, would you like to  _ talk _ about?”

The way he drawled the word  _ talk _ insinuated that he knew your true intentions. But he hadn’t left. And that meant something, didn’t it?

You hesitated, and he filled the silence for you, as pool ball clicked in the bar behind you.

“You saw the fight.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” you nodded.

“And you aren’t scared?”

“Of you?”

He inclined his head slightly. A tousled lock of his honey-brown hair, darker in the half-light of this dingy bar, fell across his forehead, giving a boyish slant to his look. You searched his gaze. There was something there. Goodness. Kindness, hidden underneath all that stubble and swagger. Whatever this man was or had been, you had the sudden realisation that he would not hurt you.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Conrad rubbed a hand over his lightly bearded jaw and you followed the movement with your gaze, your thoughts again straying to what the hair on his face would feel like against various parts of your body.

“I’m a decommissioned British SAS Captain who more than likely drinks too much and gets himself into scrapes in places of questionable repute such as this.” His deep, accented voice made the soft words sound more like the lines of a play than a warning. He held your gaze as he added, “You don’t strike me as a soldier groupie, Y/N. So one last time, what do you want from me?”

Now it really  _ was _ time to shit or get off the pot. You swallowed back any hesitation. You’d be on a plane out of here this time tomorrow, and this was your one chance to experience real passion.

And then you heard yourself say, “One unforgettable night.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Conrad get to know each other a bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I had a bit of a shitty day at work so writing this was just what I needed! Hope you enjoy chapter two. I never intended this to be more than a 600 word drabble, to be honest. I guess I have loads more to say about James Conrad** than I ever expected!!
> 
> **I wouldn't if he didn't have such a perfect sexy face.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere.” Conrad shifts in his seat, and you get the impression you’re being sized up. He reminds you of a tiger in the long grass, all long, lean muscle and coiled, banked power. “I admire the direct approach, but as I’m sure you already know, there isn’t a single unforgettable thing about this bar.” He pauses and you watch his chest rise and fall with a breath. “Except for the fact that you’re in it.”

Surprise makes you cough and you automatically reach for Conrad’s whiskey glass, taking a sip. The whiskey, cold, hard, burns a path down to your stomach and you put the glass down. Your eyes stray to Conrad’s face and you expect him to laugh at what’s becoming a poor effort at seduction. But he isn’t laughing. His handsome face is serious as he contemplates you.

This, the getting to the sex part, is taking longer than you thought it would. This isn’t like the movies. 

In the bar behind you, a half decent pianist has appeared for the dinner crowd alongside a lounge singer who has seen better days. They strike up the first bars of a recent hit,  _ Unchained Melody. _

“What are you thinking?” You ask.

A slight smile curves his lips, and the change in his face is astonishing. He has a hard beauty when his mouth is that compressed slash in his countenance, but the smile lightens him. Makes him look boyish. Fun. Is there something of that left inside the military operative? You suddenly itch to find out. To open him up and crawl inside, to breathe him in and know everything about him.

Conrad stands and offers a hand to you. “I’m thinking that if tonight is going to play out as you suggest, we need to know each other a little better. Dance with me?”

He’s tall and dark and so perfectly British and his voice is spellbinding. You couldn’t resist even if you wanted to, so you slide your hand into his and let him lead you on to the small space that passes for a dance floor in this dump of a leisure facility.

You look up into Conrad’s face, having no idea what you’ll see. But he’s looking down at you with tender concern as he settles one large, warm hand at your waist and stretches your joined hands out. Proper dancing, like your parents used to do when you were a little girl. You’d hide upstairs and watch them through the bannisters on the stairs, and wonder what it was like to be held like that.

The lounge singer’s gotten better, or, you notice her scratchy voice less because of the man who has you captivated. As he gently sways you, you relax, partially due to the welcoming heat of his broad, lean body, partially due to the lychee liquor you drank earlier and the gulp of whiskey still warming your stomach. Conrad is tall, very, and you’re thankful for your heels as you lean into him, letting your face rest in the hollow of his shoulder.

For a man who’s been lingering in a place like this for three nights straight, he should smell  _ terrible, _ but of course he doesn’t. He smells like a combination of plain soap, a hint of sandalwood, and the tang of whiskey. It’s a heady combination, as dizzying as the feel of his hand on your waist, as his thumb gently traces circles on the small of your back. The touch brands you through the material of your dress, and despite the fact that he’s only touching you there, the ministrations of his hand and his scent and his closeness are making you wet.

Conrad says your name and you look up into his eyes, the irises almost black in the terrible light in the bar.

“Tomorrow morning I ship out to an unchartered island, because two strangers offered me more money than I’ve seen in a very long time. I might not make it back. At all.” He lifts his hand from your waist and cups your cheek. “Which makes tonight perfect for what you want. One night, no promises, no holds barred.”

Your stomach bottoms out at his last three words.

He bends slightly, until his mouth is a whisper from yours. “So if that isn’t what you want, I suggest you leave. Right away.”

“Not a chance,” you tell him, and stand on your toes, closing the distance between your lips and his.

He tastes like whiskey and the night and promises and tangled sheets, and when he flicks his tongue over yours, you know you’re lost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right. LET THE SMUT BEGIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to think this is less of a reader-insert fic and more just a longwinded love letter to James Conrad. Whatever, let's do this!

As the bars of  _ Unchained Melody _ end, Conrad takes your hand and leads you through the crowded dump of a drinking establishment. 

Where there are small crowds, people part to let him through. You get the impression he’s known around here, but even if he wasn’t, anyone who witnessed him throwing down with that pool cue wouldn’t want to find themselves in his sights.

The doorman lets you through and suddenly, you’re outside, in the close humidity of the Saigon air, breathing in the smell of street food cooking. The noise of car horns and bike engines assault your senses, but nothing could overpower your awareness of the man standing tall beside you.

“My flat’s not far,” he tells you, and you look up in surprise.

“Your place?”

Conrad nods. “It’s safe.”

Of course. You’d forgotten that a man like him might encounter danger wherever he went.

He keeps a tight hold of your hand and leads you through the back streets of Saigon. The bright lights and constant rush of people is loud and disorienting, but the warm press of Conrad’s large, capable hand around yours keeps you grounded. You’ll find out tonight, you think with a rush of heat, what those hands feel like on other parts of your body.

He’s super vigilant as you walk together. The set of his body is tense and you get the sense of all that power, kept in check until needed.

You reach a back street and he leads you up a set of metal stairs before releasing you briefly to unlock a heavy wooden door. He holds up a hand in the universal sign for “wait” and you watch him briefly scan the interior. When he’s satisfied, he beckons you inside and bolts the door behind you both. “Can’t be too careful in a place like this.”

As your eyes adjust to the semi-darkness - the flat is lit by the glow from the full, waxy moon hanging in the carpet of black sky outside - you take in his lodgings. The place is sparse and clean. No clothes on the floor; no dirty dishes. A few well-thumbed paperbacks sit on the scarred wooden coffee table and you read the spines;  _ To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22,  _ and  _ The Day of the Triffids. _

He follows your gaze. “Developed a love for reading on long ops.”

“ _ To Kill a Mockingbird _ is one of my favourites,” you say honestly. It’s nice, albeit strange, to have something so normal in common with the man you’re about to sleep with.

Conrad crosses the living area to a wooden cabinet and pulls out a half-full bottle of what looks like scotch. “Nightcap?”

“Please.” Asking him for one night in the crowded noise of that dive bar, and being here, alone with him, the only witness the silent face of the moon, are two entirely different things. You could use a bit more Dutch courage.

He hunts up two small glasses and pours two fingers into each, offering one to you and leaving the bottle open on the wooden table. Beyond it, you can see a bedroom, and the foot of the bed. It is unmade, the sheets rumpled, and a sudden image of him on it flits through your mind, his lean body naked and yours for the taking. You wonder with a jolt how many other women he's taken here, but you push that thought aside harshly. You made this choice, to ask him for one night, no promises - and that's what you were going to get. Before and after didn't matter; there was only tonight.

Conrad clinks his glass against yours. “To impulsive decisions.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you say gamely, and throw the shot back. You don’t cough, this time.

He takes the glass from you and raises a brow as if to say,  _ another? _

You shake your head. If you’re going to do this, you want to remember it. To savour every moment and relive them all tomorrow, tomorrow when you’ll never see this man again, when he’ll be miles away, maybe getting himself killed, while you blink in the daylight and continue your life without him.

You swallow back a lump in your throat as you look at him, silhouetted by the glow of the moon at his back. The soft lunar light catches on his angular features, the cut of his jaw emphasized by the heavy stubble there.

You  _ really _ hope he doesn’t get himself killed.

The reminder that he’s a man who lives from one mission to another, and that tonight might be all you get,  _ ever, _ spurs you into action. He is, you think, for an ex SAS badass, surprisingly reticent at making a move, so you’ll have to do it for him.

You cross the room, your gaze holding his, dumping your glass on the table on the way. Setting aside any reservations, you reach up to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours.

He bends obligingly, and you taste him, and think you’ll never get enough. His lips are soft, warm, but the stubble around them scrapes at your face. You welcome the tiny hurts as his tongue dances with yours, as his arms band around you, holding you tight against the wall of his chest. He kisses you intensely, one hand sliding into your hair to keep you there as he ravishes your mouth.

You keep your eyes closed as he leaves your mouth and starts to press kisses down the line of your neck. You arch to give him better access, and then he nips gently at your pulse point. You shiver at the barely-there touch of his teeth, and then with an almost-growl in his throat, he turns you against the wall and scoops you up, settling your legs around his waist. He presses you against the wall, holding you there, and pressed as close to him as you are, you feel the hard length of him cradled perfectly at the apex of your body. You shiver and wriggle against him, and the way he groans and jerks into the embrace of your hips is intensely gratifying. The fact that this strong, capable, deadly man wants you like this sends a rush of power to your head, dizzying you, and you run your fingers through his tumble of honey-gold hair as he continues his journey down your body.

Conrad boots you up a little higher with one arm as he frees the other to toy with the buttons of your dress. It’s hardly your best, but you feel like a glamour puss in a ballgown as he slowly slips free one button, then two, then three.

Your serviceable white bra is hardly the stuff of fantasies, but Conrad’s face is stark with want as he gazes upon you. He lifts head for a moment and meets your eyes, and the desire you see in his baby blues makes you shiver.

“Beautiful,” he says, so softly you almost don’t hear him over the roaring in your ears.

He returns his attention to your breasts, pressing you hard against the wall as he slides one long finger under the lace edged cup of your bra. At the first touch of the pad of his finger on your nipple, you buck against him. It’s too much, and at the same time, it isn’t enough.

As he strokes you, agonisingly slowly, taking his sweet time, you decide to turn the tables. The moonlight catches on the hollow of his throat and you set your attention there, at first fumbling with the buttons on his dark blue dress shirt, then slipping them through the eyelets in turn. His broad chest is sprinkled lightly with hair, the same enticing honey-brown as that on his head, and you’re suddenly eager for more.

He wears the shirt loose, untucked, and you bunch it up between your bodies, working the buttons free as he continues to tease you. Eventually, you free the last button, and shove the soft, worn garment down his arms. It stays there while he holds you up. With a grunt of triumph, you spread your palms over his chest, feeling his heart beat a ragged tattoo under your fingers. He looks like he’s been sculpted from marble, and you trail the fingers of one hand down his toned abdomen. A thin line of hair arrows down his body, disappearing under his belt buckle. It’s your next goal.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmurs against your neck.

“You’re going very slowly,” you argue.

He smiles against your skin, and the brush of his stubble against your pulse point makes you shudder. “There’s something you should know about the SAS, darling,” he whispers wickedly. “We’re trained to be very thorough.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of ALL THE SMUT. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is definitely just a love letter to James Conrad.
> 
> I think I have more to say, so maybe one more chapter, but hell if I know where it's going.

“I suppose it’s pointless to resist,” you tease, meeting his eyes in the half-light of his flat. This close, you see that his pupils are blown with lust. His lashes are long, a heady contrast to the uber-masculine stubble cradling the firm line of his jaw.

“Absolutely,” he murmurs, and returns his attention to your breasts. He steadies you against the wall with one arm, and releases the front clasp of your bra with the other. As his fingers dance and tease, you gasp at the sensations he’s creating inside you. Finally, finally, as you arch in silent plea, he bends his head to your chest and claims a nipple with his mouth. The touch of his tongue combined with the scrape of his stubble is electric, and you feel the pulse right  _ there _ , between your legs, right where the hot, heavy length of him rubs against you.

You rotate your hips urgently, seeking, and Conrad goes still.

“Tease,” he grates out, his warm breath fanning your sensitive skin.

“Turnabout is fair play,” you reply, smiling.

You hadn’t imagined when you’d approached him at the bar, that you’d laugh, at all. That he’d have this streak of charming a mile wide under his cultured voice, his icy-eyed facade. The hard man with the edge of boyishness, the soldier with heart, that’s the sort of man you could lose your heart to, if you let yourself.

So it was good that you would never see him again after tonight.

Pushing thoughts of tomorrow, of losing your heart, and of anything else serious, from your mind,  _ firmly, _ you wrap your legs higher around his waist, pressing closer. 

Conrad groans low in his throat, and pulls you back from the wall. Holding you tight, he walks with you through the doorway to his simple bedroom, laying you down on the unmade bed with a gentleness you wouldn’t have thought him capable of, after seeing his brutal skill in the dive bar earlier.

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes, sprawled on his bed, as he shucks the shirt you have half removed.

You must look like such a harlot, you think lazily, your bra open, your dress unbuttoned to the waist, your neck chafed from his beard. But when he looks at you with that ocean-blue gaze, looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world, you can’t seem to care one whit how you might appear.

“Perfection,” he murmurs as he moves to lie on top of you, bracing his arms either side of your head, sliding his legs between his so you cradle him with your thighs. Your eyes drift close as he kisses you gently, beginning all over again, leisurely making his way down your neck, biting the curve where you shoulder begins, then kissing the tiny hurt away again.

You arch against him, needing more, more of  _ this, _ more of him, and he glances up, a determinedly wicked expression crossing his handsome, angular face, before he kisses his way down your abdomen. His hands trail down your body and he bunches the wide, floaty skirt of your dress, rucking it up around your knees.

Gently he removes one of your shoes and then the other. They clunk to the floor, but you barely notice the sound as he smooths his palms up your calves and then your thighs. His hands are calloused, from years of training, weather and weapons, and his touch makes every nerve in your limbs come alive with desperate  _ want. _

Conrad presses kisses to the inside of your thighs, his stubble tickling pleasantly. When he presses his face to your core through the thin cotton of your underwear, you buck helplessly against his mouth. He chuckles darkly, the sound warm against your sensitive flesh. You can do nothing but stay absolutely, painfully still as he slowly, painstakingly so, draws your underwear down your legs. The scrap of cotton goes the way of your shoes and is not missed.

You resist the urge to press your legs together, to hide from him. But then he works one finger, then two, inside you, and your clench your muscles around his digits, pleasure zinging through you, irresistible, relentless, addictive.

He adds his clever tongue to the exploration and it takes only a few careful licks before your muscles convulse and you’re gasping his name into the air of the Saigon night, balmy as it drifts through the open window.

Conrad presses a gentle kiss to your stomach as your body winds down from the explosive orgasm. He glances up at you with that half smile that turns you inside out, and then helps you out of the remainder of your clothes, letting them join the growing pile of fabric on the floor by his bed.

You stretch languidly and admire the lines of his lean, toned physique, kissed by moonlight as he slides off socks, scarred combat boots, and his worn, faded jeans. You watch him lazily as he removes a roll of notes from the left jeans pocket, along with a lighter, a ring of keys, a swiss army knife, a British passport, and a small, battered notebook. He sets the contents on the squat bedside table.

“Ah.” He pulls a condom wrapper from the right hand pocket.

You pluck it from his hand, tear the wrapper, and beckon him over by tucking the fingers of your other hand in the waistband of his black underwear. It hugs his hips like a lover, wraps around his body in the place you want your legs to be.

He leans over the bed and kisses you again, hungry and soft and sweet and needy all at once, and you help him shove the underwear down his legs.

Once it’s gone he slides on top of you once more, and the press of him, entirely naked and heavy and hot, arrows desire straight through you. Your tongues tangle as you help him sheathe himself in the condom, stroking him as you do so. You swallow his groan as he fits himself where your bodies meet. One lift of your hips, one whisper of his name between kisses, and he’s inside you.

You both still for a second, the moment intense and perfect, and you thread your hand through his hair. He’s warm and solid above you, and you move together like a dream. You anchor your legs around his waist as he thrusts.

Floors below, in the Saigon night, bottles clink, people shout, doors slam. The noise is lost to you; your focus is lasered in on the man who is even now claiming you in every way possible, his kisses ramping up the tightening in your body. The friction stands your nerves on end, until Conrad slips a hand between your bodies, rubbing that sweet spot in just the right way, and you shatter around him, biting down on your lip to stifle a cry.

A moment later, Conrad follows you, his body coiled tight as he comes. You hear his broken sigh as he collapses on top of you, his heart beating a ragged tattoo against yours.

When rational thought is once again available to you, you gaze up at the moon, hanging silent and bright in the darkness of the sky.

Conrad leans up on one arm and drops a kiss on your nose. “Penny for them?” he asks softly.

“Just…. You aren’t what I expected.”

His expression is unreadable. “People are often more than you expect. And less than you need.”

His words sound hollow and your heart lurches at the old pain in his voice. “And me? Am I more than you expected?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have yet to FIND a bra with a front clasp, but many romance novels have taught me that they do exist, and here they served my purpose, so.... *shrugs*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosy moments before Conrad and Y/N part ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone!!

“I never expected you at all,” he says softly into the encroaching darkness of the room. He drops a kiss on your shoulder, then you know a moment of cold as the bed moves and he leaves for the bathroom, to deal with the condom, you suspect.

You wonder for a second if he’ll ask you to leave, but he joins you back on the bed, pulls you close so your back rests against the wall of his chest.

You listen to his relaxed breathing for a few moments. The sounds of the Saigon night continue to drift up to his window, but neither of you make a move to close it.

After a few moments, the soft patter of rain begins to drop musically on to nearby tin roofs.

“Where exactly are you going, tomorrow?”

He kisses the back of your neck, and the rasp of his stubble against your skin makes you shiver; makes you want him again.

“It’s classified.” The gentle tone of his voice lessens the blow of his words. “Worried about me, are you?”

You slide your hand down his arm and link your fingers with his long, pale ones. “You did say you might not come back.”

He makes a low, throaty sound of agreement - anything throaty and low should be illegal considering that his voice is  _ made _ for sin - and continues lazily kissing your neck. “That was before.”

“Before what?” You can’t help but fish.

“Before I had something….. To come back to.”

Your heart lurches at his words, but he continues calmly kissing along the line of your shoulders as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb. Do you want to see him again? You’d have to be blind not to find him astonishingly attractive, but you hadn’t thought beyond tonight. You assumed he hadn’t, either.

You turn in his arms and slide your hands up the firm, warm wall of his chest. He’s built but lean. As you nakedly admire his physique, you notice a little compass tattoo on his hip, with the text  _ persto _ in cursive below it.

“It means  _ endure _ ,” he says softly.

You search his gaze for a second, whilst tracing the tattoo with your finger. “And that’s been your life? Just enduring?”

He smiles self-deprecatingly. “The life of a soldier is rarely easy.”

You snuggle in to him. He’s probably done some unspeakable things in the name of king and country. Killed, maimed, lied, betrayed.

But the man he is now, the man with the kind eyes and raspy stubble and strong arms, that’s the man you want. The man who is even now making little butterflies sway and dance in your stomach.

You lean up and he captures your mouth in a kiss that starts off gentle, but soon turns hungry. His tongue strokes over yours and you shift positions, rolling so that you’re straddling his hips. You nip at his lower lip greedily and he rewards you with that throaty sound again. As you break the kiss and trail your mouth down his neck, he chuckles and the sound rumbles in his chest. “You might have warned me that you’re insatiable.”

“I thought you were SAS,” you tease. “Who dares wins, isn’t that the motto?”

“Minx,” he bites off, rolling you again so you’re beneath him. The hot, hard length of him presses heavily against your belly and you arch up, wishing this moment could last forever. Your entire world narrows to this man, this room, this bed, and he takes you lazily, even lovingly, as the rain continues to patter, gentle as butterfly kisses, on the Saigon buildings.

*****

In the morning, you wake to dappled light playing over your closed lids. Turning, you stretch out across the bed to find it empty. You sit up, startled. “Conrad?”

“In here,” you hear him rumble from across the room. You adjust your eyes to the low light in the room - he closed the heavy drapes last night before you both finally dropped into an exhausted, satisfied sleep. Your limbs were still tangled with his as you drifted off into dreams.

You sit up and pad across the floor to the small bathroom. Conrad is shirtless, shaving with a cut throat razor.

You watch, entranced, as he pats on more thick, fluffy shaving cream, and with each stroke of the thin slice of metal, he reveals more of his gorgeous face of planes and angles. The bare skin really draws attention to his expressive, ocean-blue eyes, and your heart booms a quick one-two as you gaze upon him.

His mouth tips up in a half smile as he catches you watching.

“Clean up all right, do I?” he asks.

You snort. “As if you don’t know the answer to that.”

That enigmatic half smile again graces his face again. He rinses the shaving cream off, and dries his clean skin with a towel. “I don’t have long before we ship out, I’m afraid to say. Would you like a shower?”

You let your eyes skate down the perfect curve of his back. He smells like sex, and it’s a turn on. “Depends if you have time to join me.”

You surprise him in the ancient, but clean shower cubicle, taking him in your mouth and trying to burn the taste and feel of him into your memory. You revel in the guttural moan that escapes him as he comes in a hot rush.

Afterwards he whispers your name into your hair as he dries every inch of you carefully. You struggle not to cry, knowing that crying is useless and  _ ridiculous _ as you’ve known him a little less than twelve hours.

You sit still as he dresses quickly and without fuss. You do the same, pleased at least that his scent clings to your clothes.

“I’ll wait,” you whisper at the door. 

He cups your cheek. His palm is broad and warm. “You shouldn’t.”

You smile against his hand. “I don’t like being told what to do, Conrad.”

He whispers a kiss across your lips, and for a second you give in, fisting a hand in his short, soft hair, sighing into his mouth. Whatever this is, it’s shiny and precious and  _ worth _ giving a shit about, and you’re going to hold on to it for as long as you can.

You take his hand and press a piece of paper into his palm, curling his fingers around it. It’s got your particulars scribbled on it in as neat a hand as you could manage this morning, nervous as you were.

“If you come back…. Find me, Conrad.”

He rests his forehead against yours for a long moment. You breathe each other in and then he suddenly yanks you to him for a tight, fierce hug that brands his frame into yours. You cling and press your nose into his hair, drinking in every bit of him.

“I will.”

And then, he walks out of the apartment hallway, towards the bustling, dirty docks of Saigon, and out of your life.


End file.
